DIRT ROAD TALES

With a Chevy Spark through Namibia?!

Ishould start by saying that I’m a British expat living in South Africa, since it might explain how I managed to get myself into such a pickle in the first place.You see, us Brits have a tendency to make bad decisions – and then worry about the “completely unforeseen” consequences later. Take Brexit, for example, or our incomprehensible attraction to the midday sun despite our pale skins. We may not be known for the most cheerful of dispositions, but what we lack in positivity, we compensate for with sheer delusion, followed by a lot of grumbling once we’ve made a blunder. The warm weather in South Africa has defrosted my Londoner soul though, and as I’ve slowly relinquished my grip on my umbrella, I’ve started to loosen up. So it was – armed with a dangerous combination of British bravado, newfound optimism and a Johnny Clegg album – that my husband and I journeyed from Cape Town to Namibia in our snot-coloured 2008 Chevrolet Spark. We would go where few would dare to venture in a city car: Sossusvlei, on the edge of the Namib desert.

Many of Namibia’s main gravel roads are very well maintained and initially we were fine, zooming at 60 km/h up the B1 in the direction of Windhoek (as long as we kept foot to floor, the windows closed and the air conditioning off). But other than the power of negotia- ting tight spaces and being fuel efficient, the Spark offers very little for those who wish to take the road less travelled. As soon as we turned left off the C12 to Canyon Road, we were in for a tough ride. We took a dirt road for as long as it takes to be helped by Telkom. And when we finally reached the Canyon Road campsite, it was clear that our dustcovered Batmobile was not quite as omnipotent as we had anticipated. Luckily the fantastic campsite eased the blows of the ‘African massage’ getting there. My only experience of camping until our first night in Namibia had been at the Glastonbury music festival, so I was pleasantly surprised when I didn’t have to wade through mud and vomit to my tent that night. Waking up without backache the next morning was another welcome change and, feeling fresh as a daisy, we headed off early to reach Fish River Canyon before sunrise. As we slowly chugged along, a dazzle of zebras appeared in our headlights and we witnessed an actual zebra crossing. And we realised just what a long way we were from Leicester Square. But the downside of being so far away from the bright lights of Soho became apparent in the following five minutes when we ungracefully drove straight into a pile of sand. As Brits, we’re also faced with the issue of not having the foggiest idea what to do in situations such as these. A stern letter of complaint was of no use and, having grown up in suburban London, I’ve been taught very few skills that have equipped me for anything useful in life. So we did what any sensible Brits in a conundrum would do – we stiffened our upper lips, resumed a state of calm, and carried on in our futile attempt to dig ourselves free with a tin cup and a camping spork. After half an hour, however, we accepted defeat and braced ourselves for a long wait.

The universe took pity on our pathetic attempts at wilderness survival, however, and along came a car to save us from ourselves! After soaring over the same patch of sand that had been our downfall, we looked on flabbergasted as four tiny American girls jumped out of their sedan. Dressed in pastel-coloured Abercrombie shorts, they started pushing our car without missing a beat. They couldn’t have been more than 5 feet tall and 20 years old, but we learnt a very valuable lesson from them that day – never judge a book by its cover. And don’t drive through sand in a Spark! We made it to the canyon just in time for sunrise, where we celebrated our freedom with a tin of baked beans and a cup of tea. But powered by a one-litre engine and a trusty jar of Marmite, and sweating in our mobile hotbox, we had to change our travel plans quicker than Zuma changes ministers. We decided it was best to stick to the main roads for the rest of our trip, forfeiting Dune 45. It turned out to be one of the best holidays we’ve ever had, though. We feasted on N$5 oysters in Lüderitz and kayaked down the Orange River instead. So the moral of the story? Sometimes, being unprepared can work out wonderfully. After all, dealing with the “unforeseen” makes for the best stories.

We resumed a state of calm, and carried on in our futile attempt to dig ourselves free with a tin cup and a camping spork.